He’s So Young

I don’t exactly know where this short story came from—the thoughts kind of just fell together. I don’t know the interpretation either. It isn’t an allegory—the characters and symbols don’t correlate one-for-one with anyone and anything in particular. But it is perhaps an analogy, maybe even an analogy on my life right now. Mainly I just wanted to play with words. And I have met a lot of people in the past year, so I have regularly seen someone and had to stop and think long and hard on why they look so familiar.

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The young man stopped halfway across the little bridge. He stopped and looked around him. His eyes lit up, and the look of wonder and joy on his face was like that of a man stepping directly out of winter into full summer. His eyes darted around as he looked at the leaves on the trees, the insects in the grass, and the little green moss patterns on the sides of the bridge. The man turned and leaned against the railing, resting his elbows on this sturdy structure. The man’s chin was in his hands now, and the look of recognition had vanished from his eyes. Below him flowed a muddy little stream with bright green clumps of grass on its banks. Just a stone’s throw away, another bridge crossed the little stream. That bridge was not a footpath; it bore a railroad track. The man looked out on this scene, but he did not really see anything. Confusion was written all across his face. He was lost in thought.

An hour later, or maybe it was only a few minutes later, the young man was still standing there on the bridge. His chin was not in his hands anymore, but he was still leaning on the railing, still looking out toward the other bridge, still gazing inward. Suddenly, away in the distance, the whistle and roar of a train could be heard. The man was unaffected. The train came into sight and then began to lumber across the other bridge. Both bridges quivered. The man’s eyes drifted up from the stream, and settled on the windows of the cars as they wandered by. It was a passenger train. The cars were mostly full. It was a hot day, and many of the windows were open. The man’s eyes had drifted up to the train, but he really was not watching the cars pass by. He did not follow them with his eyes. He did not notice any of the details.

Many of the passengers on the train saw the young man on the bridge. The younger children laughed and pointed at the odd figure. Some of the men on the train looked away quickly—his furrowed brow and faraway gaze scared them, for it told them what was written on their own faces. Some of the men, however, followed him with their eyes, trying to get a better look at the young man; they knew his confusion, and shared it, but they wanted to break past his listless gaze and hear his story. Some of the women that saw him quickly looked away and attended to something else. A few of the women brushed away tears that had instantly sprung to their eyes. They also felt what he felt. “He’s so young…” whispered one white-haired lady to her daughter-in-law.

Suddenly the life flashed back into the young man’s eyes. They were fixed on the train now, dragging his head with them. He was following the movement of one of the cars. A face had suddenly caught the young man’s attention. It was a clean face with well-defined features. Her head was thrust slightly outside of the window. The white scarf on her head pulled and tried to flap in the wind that the train was creating. Her eyes were opened, but she did not seem to notice anything that was passing by. Her brow was gently furrowed, her mind evidently wrapped in deep thought. The man jerked himself up straighter and followed her face with his eyes. He stepped back and tipped his head to the side, trying to look between the trees beyond the path, trying to catch another glimpse of that face as it passed out of sight behind the trees. He knew that face from somewhere. Her features were so familiar. His mind raced as he tried to recall the names and faces of all of his female cousins on his mother’s side and then on his father’s side. He did not know all of them, and he had not seen most of them since he was a child—but her skin was too light for her to be related to him. He tried to think back upon all of his recent trips to the city and his interaction with vendors in the markets. Who was she?

The young man’s eyes drifted back to the muddy streamlet as the train rumbled into the distance. The man’s forehead was even more furrowed now. His eyes were open, but he saw nothing. He tried to remember her face. He tried to remember her name. He tried to remember if and how he recognized her. He stood on the bridge confused. As he stood there, a little white butterfly fluttered by in front of him. He looked at it and threw a hand out, as if to catch it. The little creature fluttered on, and the young man settled back into his musings.

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